When the pencil skirt fits,
but doesn’t sit
at the hips,
as does the cyclist,
who would rather
be caught dead
than with a bulge,
even if it’s just
an extra bunch
of fabric;
and so she walks,
in measured steps,
passing where
the sidewalk ends,
and then, drops off
into dirt,
until the final block,
where precision goes
to posture,
and so go the toes
– over the lip –
and then,
the heals,
and then,
one palm,
one knee,
and the
stack of crepes
planned to be
for everyone.

When the rice is simmering,
and asks for stirring,
just occasionally,
and so she drops
the wooden spoon,
takes up the sword,
and decides,
right then,
and there,
to prepare
for winter,
which is yet
months away,
unlike the hand
on the timer,
which begets
a ten-second
“Oh shit,”
and the other
on the blade,
“Oh shit,”
there is
in a wound,
and it is time to move
back to the pot,
with rice searing
to its bottom.

When the appetite,
stirs the night,
she slips
to the cupboard,
looks in,
up, top,
but sees nothing
with nearsighted eyes,
which is why,
her past self
put out
the one-half
energy bar,
on the counter,
where apparently
it is heir apparent
for ants play,
because something
tastes like
plus two grams
of protein,
and feels like
on her tongue.

When she arrives, at last,
not merely late
but also hungry,
and asking
for further
like a band aid,
a courtesy call,
a chance to sit,
it might be
a sign of immaturity,
or being irresponsible,
or at the end
of a misguided hike,
but more likely,
of the universal struggle,
of learning to live
outside the bubble,
where there
are new types
of pressure,
on the air,
to focus
on marks
in the floor,
to tune out
the sink of dirty dishes,
empty the mind,
and then,
get back to work.

Six Haikus

Wash for two minutes,
all employees, you must
save some for the fishes.

Salt and pepper dash
to and fro, with purpose;
make seasoned, not spiced.

gunpowder and lead
steep fully or not at all
poison in a cup

follow the reader
who knows no poets
Great American

What formula
solves for both—?
greatness and impatience

frost on the grass
so beautiful
thank God for mittens

what is home

if not
the shadow
of a round rock
in the desert

where lizards
wade in
mottled shade
as secure in

as one fleeing
some storm
out of the dust
who finds himself

a safe place
to hide
and calls it

The Collective Unconscious

A murmuration of starlings
A clump of reeds
A shrubbery of shrubs
A forest of trees

A cord of wood
A ream of paper
A box of tissue
A warehouse of boxes

A cache of jewels
A coterie of orchids
A chain of pearls
A rouleau of coins

A talent of gamblers
A syndicate of capitalists
A band of men
A fellowship of yeomen

A herd of cattle
An equanimity of tranquilizers
A clutch of breasts
A clot of cream

A culture of bacteria
A coagula of curds
A drum of cheese
A bit of string

A dossier of documents
A congregation of crocodiles
A colony of rats
A party of jays

A cluster of fucks
A sack of shits
An army of gluts
A panel of twits